lying semi-naked would now be in some forensic lab. She could just imagine it being passed round by strangers, objectified like some porn image. Being commented on, judged, rated. It felt like a second violation. She tried to tell herself that they were professionals, that it was only a piece of evidence from which clues could be removed. But she wasn’t convinced. She began to tremble, from anger or pity she didn’t know. Didn’t want to know.
She breathed deeply, tried to focus. Concentrate. Her fingers picking at the plaster in the crook of her arm where she had given a blood sample. She looked down the hall again, into the rooms. Everything that she had built up, the place she regarded as safe, had been violated. No other word for it. Burglary victims talked of the same thing, but this, thought Suzanne, was something more. Something deeper and crueller. A kind of rape.
‘Bastard . . .’ Her jaw ached. She was grinding her teeth.
Then the doorbell sounded.
And Suzanne screamed.
14
A nni Hepburn lifted the phone, keyed in a number, waited. It was answered.
‘DS Gosling.’
‘Jane? It’s Anni. You busy?’
‘Doing door-to-door. You going to be long?’ Door-to-door. The Birdies were working with Phil, of course they were. Well, good luck to them. And him.
A shudder of guilt ran through her. No. Bitterness wasn’t healthy. She should ignore it. But it had been happening more and more since Clayton’s death. The team had been shaken after that and, she told herself, they all had different ways of coping. As Phil had told her, grieve all you like, but get on with the job.
And she would. Just as far away from Phil as possible.
Anni leaned back at her desk, the phone cradled in the crook of her neck. ‘This won’t take long, Jane, thanks. Just a case you once worked on. See if you can remember it.’
‘I’ll try.’
Anni had left Suzanne in the rape suite of Southway station, come into the office to do a bit of checking. She had run Suzanne Perry’s name through the computer and was surprised to find a hit. She had come to their attention before. She had checked the case notes.
Two years previously Suzanne had been a student at Essex University on a post-graduate course in speech therapy. She claimed that one of her tutors, Anthony Howe, had offered her a first in exchange for sex. She had turned him down and reported him for sexual harassment. It came down to her word against his and, with no evidence to back up the claim, it was dismissed.
But that wasn’t the end of it. Anthony Howe, Suzanne said, began stalking her. Standing outside her flat at night, sending her obscene texts, leaving messages on the phone or just not speaking at all. Her claims were investigated. No further action taken.
Strange, thought Anni. Why no further action? She had picked up the phone.
‘Suzanne Perry,’ said Anni into the phone. ‘University student, couple of years back. You were the investigating officer. Ring any bells?’
‘Not offhand.’ Anni could hear traffic, voices in the background. Jane Gosling wasn’t giving her full attention. She would have to help her.
Anni filled her in on what the file said. The harassment claim, the stalking. ‘Any clearer?’
‘Student . . .’ said Jane. ‘Flat on Maldon Road?’
‘That’s her. Teacher was stalking her. Anthony Howe.’
‘Right. Except he wasn’t.’
Anni leaned forward, interested now. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Let me just . . .’ Another pause while she brought up the memory. ‘Phone calls, wasn’t it? Texts?’
‘What it says here.’
‘Only there weren’t any. We checked her landline. No messages. Her mobile. No texts. Said she’d deleted them. Made her feel violated. Same with her answerphone. This teacher said she’d been nothing but trouble the whole course, looked like she was going to fail, made the whole thing up to get a higher mark. He was furious, going to sue her for defamation of character, if she kept going. And that
She breathed deeply, tried to focus. Concentrate. Her fingers picking at the plaster in the crook of her arm where she had given a blood sample. She looked down the hall again, into the rooms. Everything that she had built up, the place she regarded as safe, had been violated. No other word for it. Burglary victims talked of the same thing, but this, thought Suzanne, was something more. Something deeper and crueller. A kind of rape.
‘Bastard . . .’ Her jaw ached. She was grinding her teeth.
Then the doorbell sounded.
And Suzanne screamed.
14
A nni Hepburn lifted the phone, keyed in a number, waited. It was answered.
‘DS Gosling.’
‘Jane? It’s Anni. You busy?’
‘Doing door-to-door. You going to be long?’ Door-to-door. The Birdies were working with Phil, of course they were. Well, good luck to them. And him.
A shudder of guilt ran through her. No. Bitterness wasn’t healthy. She should ignore it. But it had been happening more and more since Clayton’s death. The team had been shaken after that and, she told herself, they all had different ways of coping. As Phil had told her, grieve all you like, but get on with the job.
And she would. Just as far away from Phil as possible.
Anni leaned back at her desk, the phone cradled in the crook of her neck. ‘This won’t take long, Jane, thanks. Just a case you once worked on. See if you can remember it.’
‘I’ll try.’
Anni had left Suzanne in the rape suite of Southway station, come into the office to do a bit of checking. She had run Suzanne Perry’s name through the computer and was surprised to find a hit. She had come to their attention before. She had checked the case notes.
Two years previously Suzanne had been a student at Essex University on a post-graduate course in speech therapy. She claimed that one of her tutors, Anthony Howe, had offered her a first in exchange for sex. She had turned him down and reported him for sexual harassment. It came down to her word against his and, with no evidence to back up the claim, it was dismissed.
But that wasn’t the end of it. Anthony Howe, Suzanne said, began stalking her. Standing outside her flat at night, sending her obscene texts, leaving messages on the phone or just not speaking at all. Her claims were investigated. No further action taken.
Strange, thought Anni. Why no further action? She had picked up the phone.
‘Suzanne Perry,’ said Anni into the phone. ‘University student, couple of years back. You were the investigating officer. Ring any bells?’
‘Not offhand.’ Anni could hear traffic, voices in the background. Jane Gosling wasn’t giving her full attention. She would have to help her.
Anni filled her in on what the file said. The harassment claim, the stalking. ‘Any clearer?’
‘Student . . .’ said Jane. ‘Flat on Maldon Road?’
‘That’s her. Teacher was stalking her. Anthony Howe.’
‘Right. Except he wasn’t.’
Anni leaned forward, interested now. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Let me just . . .’ Another pause while she brought up the memory. ‘Phone calls, wasn’t it? Texts?’
‘What it says here.’
‘Only there weren’t any. We checked her landline. No messages. Her mobile. No texts. Said she’d deleted them. Made her feel violated. Same with her answerphone. This teacher said she’d been nothing but trouble the whole course, looked like she was going to fail, made the whole thing up to get a higher mark. He was furious, going to sue her for defamation of character, if she kept going. And that
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